The sleek, black Lincoln sedan transporting the Khrushchevs and their translator — followed by four other limousines — traveled swiftly out of the airport, heading into the city and a luncheon that had been scheduled at some motion-picture facility. Nikita had prepared a gracious, amiable speech that he’d intended to grant the crowd that would greet him when he came off the Air Force plane… He would have told these citizens how happy he was to be in Los Angeles, and the positive things he hoped to accomplish in their sunny city. He was going to say — quite cleverly, Nikita thought, a peasant delighted by his own poetry — that the city’s smog was like the cold war: both must be abolished if the two countries were to continue breathing…
But then that vyesh brakovanaya Mayor Poulson had insulted Khrushchev — the premier of Russia! — by dismissing him with a paltry, one-sentence introduction. This was a slap in the face, missed by no one — not a personal affront, no — this was not a matter of Nikita’s ego being bruised; rather, a display of public disrespect to Russia itself.
With some satisfaction, Nikita had noted the embarrassment on the faces of the American dignitaries, and of that fellow Harrigan, the agent in charge of protecting the premier and his family. The State Department man’s eyes had tightened and so had his hands, clenching as if he wanted to punch the mayor right in the zhiloudak.
Now the sedan sped along streets in the bright California sunlight, which shimmered on the leaves of palm trees and other exotic plants, winking off the windows of tidy little houses; it seemed an automobile sat in every driveway, and toys no child in Russia could ever afford lay discarded on sidewalks and in yards, like so much trash. Not one iota of this decadence escaped Nikita’s view, though even Nina and Oleg might never have guessed just how much his peripheral vision was reporting to him, as Nikita remained motionless as he rode, a statue of himself, seemingly staring straight ahead.
As he had on the entire American trip, Nikita steadfastly refused to acknowledge the abundance of riches around him. To do so would be to admit that Russians didn’t have such material things, and — though the Russian people were of course above such degenerate consumerism — this could be taken as a sign of weakness.
Besides, Nikita Khrushchev was not a stupid man — he was no fool. He knew very well that this was all just a show that the Americans had put on, along pre-selected routes, carefully orchestrated to impress and deceive him; no country on earth was really so wealthy.
Unfortunately, his two daughters and son — sitting opposite him in the limo — were leaning forward with bright eyes, children at the circus, pointing at the sights, whispering excitedly, all but drooling on the car’s bullet-proof windows. Nikita shot Sergei a stern, reproachful look, and the young man glanced meaningfully at first Rada, then Julia, and all three then sat back, hands folded in their laps. Good children all (and though they were in their twenties and thirties, they were to him children), the trio followed their father’s example.
Nikita sat staring forward — and yet missed nothing, out of the corners of his eyes… like the strange sight of a little girl rotating a plastic hoop around her waist. Of this he made a mental note; the toy looked affordable, although why any child — American or Russian — would want such an object he could not fathom.
More than anything, the premier was painfully aware of the absence of any crowds along their route. Poulson must have banished the well-wishers inside, Nikita felt certain, no doubt under threat of being shot should they show the visitors any hospitality whatsoever. Or was it that even a string of shiny limousines zipping through the streets could not attract any attention here — not in this city of decadence, where a gross indulgence like a limousine was apparently a common sight.
For the most part, Nikita had felt buoyed by the welcome the Russian party had encountered previously on the American trip — the crowds had been numerous and receptive, some even cheering. People were people, after all — the press insisted on referring to the Russians as “communists” but Nikita did not look at Americans and think of them as “capitalists.” He saw people, only people, of flesh and blood, of hopes and dreams, weak and strong, kind and… sometimes… unkind. As the Russian saying went, no apple was safe from worms, like the maggots in Chicago with their signs condemning him for his action in Hungary.
The invasion of that satellite country — a necessary but unfortunate foray to crush the counter-revolution — was not his decision alone, and had caused Nikita great anguish.
When word reached him in Moscow that the Hungarian Communist Party had fallen in Budapest at the hands of the students and intelligentsia, Nikita’s first reaction had been not to meddle, but to monitor the crisis… he hoped to follow a similar tactic to the one he had taken, the year before, with Poland. Nikita believed that the cream — that is, the communist party — had a way of always rising to the top.
And if truth be told — although telling such a truth would have been political suicide — the premier could certainly understand how the Hungarians could be gripped by unrest and unhappiness, subjected as they’d been for years to the harsh rule of Stalin, and that foul henchman of his, Rákosi.
But why hadn’t they simply re-organized themselves — peacefully — as had their Polish brothers? Instead, communist party members were made examples of, brutally murdered, and strung up in the vandalized town square, and then outrageous demands had been made — not just freedom, but neutrality! — which had made it impossible for Moscow to look the other way.
In handling the crisis, Nikita fell back on a tactic he had learned long ago — a tactic that had saved his life more than once… like the time Stalin had sent for him in February of 1939…
To be summoned in the middle of the night to the dictator’s dacha just outside the capital — which the insulated Stalin rarely left — could mean many things, most of them bad, many involving death, often the death of the one summoned. The young Khrushchev, then First Secretary of Moscow City, had survived more of these invitations than just about anyone in the Party… but with each new summons, Nikita’s odds worsened.
Without so much as a greeting, the burly, big-headed head of the Communist party came directly to the point. In his bedclothes, his eyes wilder than usual, thick black hair unkempt, massive mustache in need of a trim, Stalin had the look of a madman. This was largely because, as Nikita well knew, the dictator was indeed mad.
“Comrade,” Stalin said, with an intensity worthy of reporting the infidelity of his mate, “someone is poisoning the horses in the Ukraine.”
“Oh?” was all Nikita said. With Stalin it was always better to listen than to be heard. To be heard was to have an opinion, and to have an opinion was to risk much too much.
Pacing, Stalin flailed his arms like a drowning man. “All over the countryside, the peasants are reporting their horses falling like dead flies.”
“I see.”
Clearly vexed, Stalin asked, “Do you know what this means to our country? The dire ramifications?”
Nikita did. Horses were needed not only for farming, but for the military, as this was before American trucks had arrived.
Stalin’s eyes narrowed and he leaned close to the smaller, younger man. “An enemy is under my nose.”